


Brooklyn, baby

by theaa



Category: Game of Thrones (TV), Gossip Girl
Genre: F/M, jonxsansaremix2017
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-08
Updated: 2017-09-08
Packaged: 2018-12-25 07:38:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12031230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theaa/pseuds/theaa
Summary: Sansa’s lost count of the disasters in her life. Maybe she should keep a tally on Jon’s cupboard door, as she always ends up here in Brooklyn to discuss them.Written for the Jon x Sansa remix 2017. Day 1 - TV couple: Dan x Blair (Gossip Girl)





	Brooklyn, baby

**Author's Note:**

> For the sake of this story, Joffrey is an dick, but not that much of a dick, so he can fit Louis' role. The prince thing was too good to pass up.

Sansa taps her nails on the smooth cherry surface of the table and waits for Dorota to stop fussing with the breakfast things. Across from her Dany drones about the latest guy she’s infatuated with, who is  _totally_  not returning her calls, and how she doesn’t want to come across as clingy, but she  _really_  doesn’t get it. Sansa pastes a smile onto her face and tells her that if she wants to talk to him so badly, she should just go over there herself.

Dany pauses, hand mid-air and mid-rant, and then smiles.

‘That’s actually a great idea, S. I should go do that, thank you.’

Her thanks earns her a proper smile, and for a second the two girls beam at each other, before the old flicker of distrust sparks in Dany’s eyes. ‘You seem different, S.’

‘Oh, you know… I’m on cleanse,’ Sansa evades, gesturing vaguely at her green smoothie, which sits untouched in front of her. Dany frowns and then shrugs.

‘Hmm, well you really do seem good,’ she finishes, before snagging a pastry from the table and striding away, white blonde curls bouncing.

Dorota, it seems, is also concerned with her perkiness recently, and Sansa has to shoo her away with a hastily thought up demand, before she pulls out her phone and types out a quick message.

_Coast is clear. Come over…_

It sends with a whoosh and before she even has a chance to debate whether the ellipsis is too unintentionally ‘come hither’ there’s an answering ping. Sansa tries really, really hard not to examine why  _exactly_  she’s so happy. She finishes her smoothie with a wince and goes to check her hair in her bedroom mirror and has to run away when she catches sight of a slight smile on her face there too.

xx

Jon’s kicked off his awful combat boots and is lounged on her bed (it’s a good job silk sheets can’t crease) flicking through a copy of the New Yorker. He’s humming under his breath, something hideously off key - probably some sad boy New York indie-rock - and Sansa looks up from her phone and frowns.

‘Snow, I thought I warned you about the singing.’

Jon glances up from the paper and his lips twitch into a smile. ‘I think you’ll find I wasn’t singing, Stark.’

‘Whatever.’ She pauses and then moves towards him. ‘I can’t believe I let you talk me into the Joseph Beuys exhibition, after all.’

Tapping the magazine again, Jon replies, ’there’s a great article about him in here. You should read it.’ He smirks to finish it off, because he knows Sansa’s most likely already read it, in her own copy of The New Yorker, which she  _also_  gets delivered. Sansa rolls her eyes.

She’s just about got used to their freakishly similar tastes in film and art and literature, but Jon still finds it endlessly amusing. And she isn’t that fussed about the Beuys exhibit, even though the article had highlighted several of the artists merits - but she let Jon persuade her because it’s been a week of parties and petty squabbles with Dany, and an hour or two wandering around the MOMA with Jon seems like an island of sanity, even if she doesn’t like the artist in question.

Actually, if she admits it to herself, Jon himself is quickly becoming her go-to island of sanity, full stop.

He returns to reading, a small puckered frown line between his eyebrows as he concentrates. His hair is up today, pulled back into the type of bun that Sansa would usually turn her nose up at, but it doesn’t look so bad on Jon, she thinks. It makes him look older, and more…. mysterious.

Which is stupid, because she knows everything there is to know about Jon Snow - Dany’s ex-boyfriend, Robb’s best friend, fellow Constance alum, and Brooklyn resident.

The beard he’d started sporting when they were alone in the city over the holidays and this  _thing (friendship?)_ started is still there - he must have decided he liked it enough to endure Lyanna’s moaning about it. She watches as he rubs at it idly and flicks the page before she realises she’s been stood in the middle of her room staring and takes a step back.

‘We should go over field trip procedures again,’ she says firmly.

Jon barely looks up. ‘Oh, joy,’  he deadpans. Sansa ignores him and goes to grab her things from her desk, pointedly turning her back on him.

‘I arrive first, survey the location in case there’s anyone I know, and scout out an exit strategy. You arrive at least fifteen minutes later. Plausible deniability - we just ran into each other.’

Jon looks doubtful. ‘You’re really big on plausible deniability, has anyone ever told you that?’

It only earns him an eye roll. ‘Do  _you_  want to explain to someone why we went somewhere together?’ Jon and Sansa aren’t friends - everyone knows this, and to have to explain otherwise would just be complicated and awkward and would rock the status quo - which just really isn’t worth doing.

Jon’s mouth flattens into a thin line and he shrugs. There’s a second’s pause, where Sansa wonders what he’s going to say in reply -  _call the trip off? She’d be disappointed but wouldn’t show it. Refuse her plan? Could she risk being seen with him in public?_  - when there’s call from outside.

‘Miss Sansa!’

Sansa snaps into action, whirling around to where Jon is still halfway to speaking. ‘Go! Through my bathroom to Dany’s room.’

Jon’s eyebrows jump up but he slides off the bed anyway and grabs his things. Sansa has to propel him forward with a hand at his back, which he almost seems to lean back into.

‘Is this really necessary?’ he drawls, but Sansa just tells him to move it and shoves him through to the bathroom.

A second later and the door opens.

xxx

Dorota holds up the magazine triumphantly, like she’s discovered some state secret, and Sansa’s first thought is to curse Jon. Which makes her second reaction of denial delayed and more obviously a lie, so she curses Jon  _again_. Dorota looks smug.

‘Just what are you implying?’

‘Your new secrecy, calmness with Mr Harry, supporting Miss Dany’s new boyfriend, and last weekend I find Nova documentary in your Netflix list!’

Sansa blanches. ‘What are you doing in my Netflix?’

‘You and Lonely Boy are having affair!’ Dorota finishes with a flourish. Sansa has to look around sharply to make sure no one hears.

‘We are not! We have gone to a few things together over the holidays - it’s no big deal!’

‘No big deal? We have to tell Miss Dany!’ Dorota protests.

‘We will do no such thing!’ Sansa replies firmly, ‘I am  _not_  friends with Jon Snow and to prove it I will happily ditch the Beuys exhibit and leave him hanging.’

She’s definitely not that sad about missing the art, but when she pictures Jon waiting around the MOMA entrance in his wool coat with his stupid ugly scarf, two coffees clutched in his hands, her stomach tightens uncomfortably and she has to force Dorota into another shop in an attempt to banish it.

xxx

Which is why it sucks when she rounds the corner and there he is, as if she conjured him through sheer force of will, which she doubts even  _she’s_  capable of doing. Jon’s hanging by the street curb, holding a cup of coffee. Only one though, and it’s not for her.

She does the only thing she can do - she marches right up to him.

‘Why aren’t you at MOMA meeting me?’

Jon’s surprise (and was that a flicker of hurt?) at seeing her is hastily schooled. They both have their pride to defend, it seems. ’I decided to grab lunch with my mom instead. Why aren’t  _you_  at MOMA meeting  _me_?’

‘I’m standing you up!’ she bursts out.

‘Ah well, apparently great minds think alike.’ Jon doesn’t laugh (his laughs are rare but never cruel) but he does hide his grin by taking a sip of coffee.

‘But I had a good reason!’ Sansa protests, suddenly anxious for Jon to believe she wasn’t just blowing him off for nothing, even if that’s exactly what she did do -  _what if he never wants to go to anything with her again?_

Jon shrugs, ‘and I would love to hear that reason, but my mom’s gonna be out any second and I haven’t scouted an exit strategy for you, so…’

Sansa blinks at his sarcasm. ‘We are not done here.’ Her tone is waspish, harsher than she intends, and Jon hunches his shoulders and looks steadily back at her.

‘Yeah we are,’ he says shortly, and it’s the worse dismissal he’s ever given her. The awful clenching feeling in her stomach from earlier is still there, even as she walks away.

xxx

Jon and Sansa. Individual entities. Two nouns separated by a conjunction. She smiles when she thinks about it now. As if they ever could - the damage had already been done.

It’s been months and months -  _years_  - since that failed day  _(date?_ ) at the MOMA, and yet, here Sansa is, still turning to Jon Snow as her island of sanity. Her problems these days are bigger than judgemental friends (she’s pregnant for god’s sake!) and her relationship with Jon has steadied out into…. well, Sansa doesn’t know what they’ve steadied out into exactly.

Is it unusual to have made out (several times!) with your best friend? Several messy, mistaken, splashed-all-over-Gossip-Girl kisses that Sansa spends half her time these days trying to forget and half the time reliving whenever Harry disappoints her  _again_ , or when she gets cold feet over Joffrey (it’s normal!) — well, she spends a lot of time (and wishes she didn’t) thinking about them.

Whatever they were in the past, the short-lived tentative question mark of a relationship they had - they don’t bring it up. They kissed at stupid parties for stupid reasons, when they’d both been drinking, and Jon doesn’t mention it, so why should she?

Not for the first time, Sansa wishes that the upper echelons of Manhattan’s society were just a little bigger so she wouldn’t have to call her brother’s friend, high-school enemy, best friend’s ex-boyfriend, her sort-of-ex-boyfriend - her  _current_  best friend.

Or that she’s made more friends in high school.

Sometimes, she even wishes that she met Jon first, not Dany. That she was the one to run into him and drop her cell phone and kick start a chain of events no-one saw coming. Everyone knows that Dany and Jon are made for each other - they might be apart now, but if there’s one thing Sansa believes in, it’s true love, if not for herself then certainly for others…. and well, they’ve got to be it.

But what if she’d met Jon first and not Dany - what about then? Would they switch places? Would it be Harry and Dany instead?

It’s ridiculous to even think about because she’s with Joffrey, she’s  _marrying_  Joffrey (who is a decent man even if his family isn’t) and she’s  _pregnant_ , and she’s messed up  _enormously_  and what she really needs is a friend, which is what Jon is being and she  _values_  his friendship. He’s maybe the truest friend she’s ever had. Truer than anything she’s ever had with Dany, even, which feels awful to admit since they’ve been friends so long. But it’s telling that it’s not Dany she’s going to with any of these problems. It’s the Brooklyn loft she ends up at, every single time.

‘It isn’t Brooklyn I’m here for’ - that’s what she’d said when she arrived this evening, complete with a signature eye-roll and a side-step around Jon’s concerned gaze.

So when exactly did Sansa Stark, exclusive upper east-sider start braving Brooklyn for Jon Snow?

What’s that phrase?  _‘I was in the middle before I knew I had begun’_  - she’s sure she’s forgetting the rest of it and the context, but it sums up a lot of her life recently, and certainly her friendship with Jon.

Jon settles himself on the couch and hands her a steaming mug - tea, she notes, not coffee. He knows the rules about pregnant women without having to be told, somehow - and his eyebrows furrow and his grey eyes turn serious.

‘You know… you do have options.’

She smiles at his tentative tone, a slightly bitter twist of her mouth. ‘And I’ve considered them all. But no matter what this baby was conceived out of love, and I’m going to keep it.’

It’s an awkward conversation, even as she tries to force some of their usual banter, but Jon - Jon who  _hates_  Harry, who sees the big glittering engagement ring on her left hand - sits and sips his coffee and doesn’t pass judgement.

Which must make him the most singular man in New York.

‘Even Sansa Stark can’t bend DNA to her will,’ he jokes, his humour dry as ever, and Sansa’s lips twitch unbidden. As if that’s the one failure in her life, instead of all the other shit she’s messed up along the way.

‘I can’t be this close to having all my dreams come true, only to have them yanked away by one stupid transgression.’

It’s a childish way to put it - but  _really,_ she’s so close to marrying a man who claims to love her, to have a family of her own, to being a  _princess_  for God’s sake - and she’s ruined it for herself in one self-destructive night with Harry.

Jon smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. ‘Sansa, I know it’s scary, but I think you should know who the father is, if not for yourself then for the baby.’

And there they are - the words she came to Brooklyn to hear. The words she  _needed_  to hear and trusted Jon to be able to say to her.

When she bites her lip she can feel the corners of her eyes sting and her breath is shaky and shallow and wet with unshed tears.

‘And what if I lose everything?’

‘You’ll still have me.’

Jon’s chest is warm, his skin hot through the thin t-shirt he’s wearing when he opens his arms so she can lay her head there. She can feel the kiss he drops to her hair, the thumb he rubs across her shoulder. She can hear his heartbeat, the skid of cars down in the street below, the steady humming of the refrigerator, but Jon doesn’t say anything more and she’s grateful.

She’s grateful for a lot of things, but Jon most of all.

xxx

She’s clutching a cup of tea, in the fanciest cup and saucer Jon could find (and she didn’t even ask for it) and her hands are shaking, just the tiniest amount. She hopes that Jon can’t see from where he’s perched by the breakfast bar.

Sansa’s lost count of the disasters in her life. Maybe she should keep a tally on Jon’s cupboard door, as she always ends up here to discuss them.

‘I saw your photos in the paper. Is everything alright?’  He tries to sound offhand and casual, but Sansa’s slight control of her emotions snaps all the same. She knows she’s hysterical, but acknowledging it doesn’t mean she can turn it off, unfortunately.

‘Everything is horrible! I need to go to Joffrey and reassure him that he’s never going to lose me, but something is stopping me.’

‘Harry is stopping you,’ Jon says flatly.

‘No, I haven’t even spoken to Harry!’ she protests - which is true, she hasn’t. Or rather, Harry hasn’t called her and she’s trying not to be bothered about it, which amounts to the same thing. Jon still looks unimpressed.

‘You don’t have to. You two have some strange forcefield effect on each other. Physicists should study it…’

It’s a poor attempt at a joke and Sansa can’t even bring herself to roll her eyes, but she nods. ‘Harry has finally become the person I always wanted him to be, and I think I might know how to make Joffrey back into the Prince I fell in love with - which means I’m trapped, I have to choose, but I can’t - you have to help me,’ she finishes, somewhat maniacally.

Jon sets aside his mug coffee, which really means she’s got his full attention.

He looks uncomfortable for a second and Sansa suspects he might want to run screaming from the room, but then he sighs. ‘Okay, have you tried making a list of pros and cons? Sometimes that helps me.’

Sansa scoffs. ‘Lists are for choosing bridesmaids, not who you’re spending the rest of your life with.’

She knows she’s hurt him by throwing away his advice because his face shutters off immediately. ‘You’re right,’ he says sharply. ‘Go the Howard Hughes route. I’m sure you’ll find out when you’re peeing in jars.’

It’s a typically scathing, sarcastic, culturally-loaded insult from him, and instead of having the desired effect, it only makes Sansa smile.

‘Fine, okay, I’ll start with Harry. Pros - he truly has become a good man,’ she tests out slowly. Jon’s reply is instantaneous.

‘Cons - he’s slept with every woman in New York. It could get a little awkward at dinner parties.’

‘Sometimes fun, don’t judge,’ Sansa warns, wagging her finger, and suddenly it’s a game, and she’s smiling again, and she can see a smile tugging at the corner of Jon’s mouth too.

‘Okay, Joffrey - obviously he’s a prince,’ she begins.

‘Of Westeros,’ Jon supplies dismissively. ‘What else?’

And then she has to go and ruin it, doesn’t she?

‘He’s the father of my child’ she starts, and then her face drops and the smile slides off Jon’s face too.

‘The fact is, I can make all the lists in the world, but what else matters?’

Jon’s face is pensive, but he doesn’t say anything.

‘I’ve pretended like it’s not a factor, but it’s everything…. isn’t it? Joffrey is the father of my child, so… he is the only ending to this fairytale. Right?’

He glances away, just for a second, but when Jon looks back up there’s something in his eyes, a glint, some hesitation, that throws Sansa off.

‘He doesn’t have to be,’ Jon says slowly.

Sansa’s heart flutters pathetically in her chest. ‘You don’t think it would matter that my baby is another man’s child?’

Jon huffs out a breath. There’s a pause that keeps Sansa hanging.

‘It wouldn’t to me,’ he replies, and his voice is soft and gentle, and Sansa doesn’t know what to do with soft and gentle things when she’s feeling so brittle herself. Tears well up in the corner of her eyes before she can stop them.

But Jon doesn’t mean what she thinks he means. He couldn’t. It would be insane. He’s already been roped into one baby that wasn’t his with the Ygritte debacle; he’s not going to voluntarily sign up for more, no way.

For a split second, she can see it though - her and Jon in the loft with a tiny baby swaddled in blankets tucked between them on the couch asleep, her head lolling on Jon’s shoulder, a black and white movie rolling peacefully in the background. When she thought about becoming a mother before, all she could envision was the glitzy baby shower and then – well, the vision just stopped. But with Jon? She can imagine slow Sunday brunches and afternoons in Central Park. She can imagine a family.

But that’s not what he’s offering, and that’s not what she wants (right?) and besides, it’s not even an option. She shuts the thought down.

‘You’re right,’ she says, ‘I should at least see what he thinks.’ She pulls out her phone, anxious to get the conversation with Harry over with already.

Jon turns back to his coffee.

xxx

He’s her getaway driver.

It’s cliche.

No, it’s worst than cliche. It’s  _tragic_.

Jon turns the keys in the Bentley, the wedding car for God’s sake, and Sansa watches as the Plaza disappears behind them into the cold New York night. She expects Joffrey, or his mother, her mother,  _someone_  - to come running out to stop them, but no one does. Jon’s eyes flick towards hers in the mirror, anxious, but steady.

‘Just drive,’ she tells him - so he does.

She maxes out his credit card at the airport shop buying replacement clothes and he buys her plane ticket on his own account and carries her Vera Wang wedding dress for her and when she can’t fly he books them both a hotel room. They both turn off their phones.

A few hours ago she was a princess - now she’s in an airport hotel with Jon Snow, who is not the man she married, nor the man she somewhat-desperately confessed to loving earlier that day, and they’re stuck hiding from the paps who are probably outside the hotel doors already, and —

Ok, so she’s not being very grateful and she’s showing it. It’s rare that Jon loses his temper, but this time he does. She’s never been good at keeping her own temper and she  _knows_ it’s not fair to Jon, and he’s not the one she’s really angry at, but it feels too  _good_  to shout and scream for a second at this awful, awful day, and she deserves Jon’s anger - because she’s stupid. A  _stupid_  girl, who has stupid dreams, and never learns.

Harry comes with Dany and things get crazy, and Jon goes to leave, ducking out into the hotel corridor. He’s pissed off, shoulders hunched, tone flippant. She lets him go.

She finds him in the hotel bar later, still there, nursing a whiskey. ‘If you’re looking for Dany, she’s headed back to the city with Harry,’ he mumbles, staring pointedly at the bottom of his glass and not at her.

Sansa straightens her back and takes a deep breath. Pride usually prevents her apologies, but Jon deserves one.

’No, I was looking for you. I want to apologise. Everything you said was right - I could never have survived this last month without you… It’s pretty obvious you care about me way more than Joffrey.’ She swallows, quickly adds ‘- and I care about you too. As a friend, of course.’

‘Of course.’ Jon agrees hastily.

‘Even if I have weird ways of showing it, like bossing you around or telling you to cut your hair.’

Jon laughs, and his grin is tired and cracked, but it’s  _real_. He tugs at the bun he’s thrown his hair back into and Sansa giggles. She likes it, secretly. It’s very Brooklyn. It’s very  _Jon_. She’d never tell him.

‘Thank you for helping me, and I really am sorry for maxing out your credit card.’

‘Well, you have much bigger problems to deal with. Speaking of, what now?’

Her throat is dry when she swallows, but she looks at Jon, still in his wedding clothes, dress shoes slightly scuffed, tie loose and shirt sleeves rolled up, his face open and kind and  _beautiful_ as he props himself on the bar to listen to her.

’I know what I have to do. I just need to know you’ll be there for me.’

His answer is as simple and beautiful as he is.

’Always.’

xxx

The door to the loft is open when she arrives. Knocking feels unnecessary these days, but she does it anyway, and finds Jon right where she expects, hand curled round a beer at the breakfast bar.

She hasn’t even changed clothes since her conversation with Harry. Since Jon admitted that for months, through her marriage and her divorce, through losing the baby, through every conversation they had together on his couch, that he’s been trying to keep her and Harry apart. 

That he wants her for himself.

As far as declarations of love go it’s a messy one, but she knows messy. She  _understands_  messy. It’s almost reassuring to know Jon’s as messy as all the rest of New York, deep down beneath that blasé Brooklyn attitude.

‘If you came here to tell me what a horrible person I am, then too late - I already know,’ he says dourly, turning slowly to watch her hovering by the door.

‘That’s not why I came.’

’Why, did you get back together with Harry?’

‘No.’

Jon’s tired eyes cloud over with confusion - and then she sees it click. His pale face literally lights up and he puts down his beer with a shaking hand. She can still see him hesitating, not wanting to get his hopes up - not after everything she’s put him through.

‘Are you moving to a desert island where there are no men at all and you’ll be living in blissful solitude?’

Sansa’s heart is in her mouth, but she manages to laugh anyway.

Jon moves towards her until they’re face to face - and this is it.

This is the third option she never thought she had. This is the relationship no-one will expect, the relationship  _she_  didn’t expect, the one she’s been denying for years. Right now, it’s the relationship that  _finally_  makes sense.

Her voice quavers. ‘I told Harry he doesn’t have my heart anymore. I realised it belongs to someone else.’

When Jon kisses her, even though they’re in Brooklyn and she’s made a thousand jokes about it, it feels like coming home. He’s gentle and warm and passionate all at once. His fingers slide into her hair and tangle there. She clutches at his shoulder for balance, and when they break apart their foreheads rest against each other, and Sansa stands there for a second, taking him in. The familiar smell of his laundry detergent on the dress shirt he’s still wearing washes over her.

She feels safe.

xx

The pink taffeta gown she’s been forced into rustles in the back of the taxi as she fidgets restlessly. Sansa bites at her thumb nail and avoids looking at Jon beside her.

The divorce papers are signed now, safely sealed, stamped and delivered, but she knows she hurt Jon in her hesitation - and for what? A childish dream of being a princess, dashed on the rocks of reality?

She told herself she needed a day to mourn the person - the  _princess_  - she might have become as Joffrey’s wife. When she explained her reasoning to Jon she felt about two feet tall and woefully immature.

And now she’s stuffed into a garishly pink prom dress speeding to God knows where with Jon. He’s not usually one for schemes and she’s not usually one to go along with them, but he’d asked and said it was important and she’d felt guilty enough to force herself to put on the dress and go with him.

She’d asked him what it was for, but he’d refused to tell her. When they pull up at the Met steps, Sansa blinks, utterly confused, but then Jon’s pulling her from the car.

‘What is this about? I feel like a prom queen doing the walk of shame,’ she protests, as Jon tucks her arm into his and pulls her across the sidewalk and up the first small flight of stairs.

‘You look like a princess.’ He fishes out a tiara from his coat pocket, one that looks suspiciously flimsy. ‘I’m not going to lie, this is cubic zirconia that I got from a costume shop, but you’ll sell it.’

Sansa pulls a face, half a joke and half not. ’Cubic zirconia does not touch this body.’

Jon chuckles. ’Put it on, Sansa.’

She gives him a faux heavy sigh and takes it from him and places it on her hair, hardly able to stop the smile threatening. ‘I have hit rock bottom.’ she says dramatically and Jon grins. ‘What is going on?’

Jon’s lips curl upwards. ’I uh, I thought you should get to feel like a princess one last time.’

Right on cue, a bunch of school girls spot the glitter of the fake tiara in the sun, and come running over. Their pea coats are the latest fashion, their Constance uniforms crisp and artfully customised. Sansa knows these girls - she  _was_  these girls. Their half eaten lunches on the Met steps are forgotten. They screech to a halt in front of them, pulling out their camera phones.

‘Oh my god! It’s Sansa Stark!’

‘You look beautiful!’

‘She’s a real life princess!’

‘Let’s get a picture!’

Jon laughs and gathers their phones and snaps a few pictures while Sansa stands there awkwardly, glaring at him but biting back the laughter that’s bubbling up in her. The girls disperse with giggles and waved goodbyes and then it’s just Jon and her again, and the warm look in his eyes.

Sansa is sure she’s never been in love before.

Not with Joffrey, not with Harry. Not before now.

They’d never do something like this - something silly and indulgent and beautiful, just for her.

She reaches up to kiss Jon, but she’s smiling and so he’s he, and they have to break apart after a couple of seconds.

‘Thank you,’ she says softly.

The smile she gives Jon borders on shy because she  _knows_  now - she knows for sure that this is where she’s meant to be, this is who’s she meant to be with - and this is her fairytale ending.

Jon takes her hand and Sansa bunches up the pink ruffles of her skirt and they hurry down the steps of the Met. Everyone is staring, but Jon’s looking at her and smiling and Sansa doesn’t even mind. Not one bit.


End file.
